Don't Scratch
by DWforlife
Summary: John's a good doctor. He's been told many times that he has excellent bedside manners, but then Sherlock Holmes had to go and get the bloody chicken pox.
1. Chapter 1

**One of these days I'll get back to my other stories. Anyways ****I've never actually dealt with this sickness before, so if it seems unrealistic, that's why.**

**On to the story!**

* * *

No matter what he was doing, Sherlock Holmes always appeared to be in constant motion. So when the man in question began shifting himself around in his seat, John barely spared him a glance.

It wasn't until Sherlock was lying flat on the couch forcibly rubbing his back against it that John finally closed his newspaper with a sigh. "What are you doing?"

He pointed to John's laptop that was sitting precariously on his chest. "Checking emails."

_Inhale_. "Let's try again. Why exactly are you attempting to sandpaper the sofa with your body?"

"Oh. I have an itch."

"And you can't, I don't know, scratch it like a normal person?"

"Tried that, it didn't go away." Sherlock glanced at him. "Say John-"

"No I will not scratch your back for you."

"Why not?

"Because you are in your mid-thirties, and are perfectly capable of handling this yourself."

"Early thirties."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

A full two minutes of Sherlock mimicking a cat marking its territory and John pretending he didn't notice, passed before the latter finally snapped. "Alright fine. You're driving me mad. Turn around."

With a smug smile that showed just how pleased he was to get his way, Sherlock allowed John to begin scratching the middle of his backside. He let out a low moan.

"New rule: no making noise while I'm itching you."

"It feels good though."

"Doesn't matter." At a certain point, John happened to glance up towards Sherlock's neck, and noticed something that made him pause. "Um Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You've had chicken pox before right?"

"How should I know?"

"_Everyone_ knows if they have or not."

"Obviously not."

"Knows how to disembowel a bloody turtle, but not his own medical- look I'm asking because I'm almost certain you've contracted it."

Sherlock chuckled idly scratching at his arm. "Oh John. I see those years of medical school were wasted on you. Only children get chicken pox."

"Anyone who hasn't had them is at risk of getting them."

"Since when?"

"Since.. always. Don't huff at me, I'm trying to help."

"I think I have some calamine lotion, it'll help with the itching. And don't scratch, you'll scar."

* * *

By the following morning Sherlock was covered almost completely in little red marks, and proving just how awful a patient he could be.

"Holmes, I swear I am going to Phoebe Buffay your hands."

"I don't know what that means."

"_Stop scratching._"

"But it _itches!_"

"_Then use the ointment!_"

"But it _smells_ funny."

"Oh. My. God."

As John was contemplated the likelihood of Lestrade letting the homicide charges slide if he told him that Sherlock was being really annoying, a distraction in the form of Mrs. Hudson arrived. "Oo oo. Oh," She clucked. "Aren't you a sight. Poor bean." At this, the world's only consulting detective let out a self-pitying little whimper that made his landlady give a sympathetic tut, and his friend roll his eyes. "How about I run you a nice oatmeal bath, hmm? It'll be just what the doctor ordered." Sherlock gave her a wide forced smile, and waited till she had tapped her way out of the room before turning to hiss at John, "I refuse to sit in an oatmeal filled bathtub, like sliced fruit in your morning bowl. I refuse!"

Adding oatmeal to the ever growing list of foods he couldn't eat without thinking about his flatmate naked; John looked back at him. "Sorry Sherlock, you heard what she said. It's what the doctor ordered."

The look of betrayal only sweetened John's petty, if fleeting, revenge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2! I think it's shorter, but ah well what can ya do? The next part will be the final part, and I've been having a few issues with it so it may be a bit longer till it's up. Anyways thank you to everyone who has been commenting, favourite or following. If you haven't read my other story 'I Consider Myself Married' (_shameless advertising!_) then you probably don't know that I struggle a lot with my writing, and I can't even explain how amazing it makes me feel to know that people actually like my stories, that you'll actually take the time to tell me your thoughts and so thank you. Thank you so much for even just reading these silly little tales of mine. You're all such wonderful people.**

* * *

Sherlock traipsed into the living room the following afternoon wrapped in several blankets, and still shivering hard.

"Hey buddy. How're you feeling?"

He sent John a withering glare. "Don't patro- oh what's the point?" Following the usual Holmes' style, Sherlock fell dramatically backwards onto the couch. "I'm dying John."

"No you're not."

"What do you call this then? Headaches, chills, a rapidly rising temperature, full body rash. What do call this, if not death?"

"Chicken pox."

Sherlock let out an exasperated noise. "By this time tomorrow my corpse will be half rotted. And you don't even care!"

John sighed. "You're being a little overdramatic don't you think?"

"Eshin iy outh ith ishy, Ohn!"

"Stop scratching your mouth!"

"But it's itchy!"

John's eye twitched. If he ever heard the word 'itchy' again...

The detective's phone tinged the arrival of a new text. "It's Lestrade." Sherlock informed him. "Says he has a case. Three graves dug up... bodies taken... multiple body parts found in garbage bin... not enough to make a full person... all three heads recovered. Oh. _Oh_! This is going to be fun!"

Except for the spots, every single one of Sherlock's symptoms instantly disappeared as he sprain from his spot, whirling around in search of his coat. "Come John! The Game is-"

John held up a hand. "Sherlock! You have chicken pox."

"What have I said about pointing out the obvious?"

"Don't know. I tune you out most of the time. You're not going out. You're sick and highly contagious."  
"But John, the Game is-"

"Five minutes ago you were complaining about being in Death's foyer with your coat on a hanger, and now you want to go running around London?"

"Yes because the Game is-"

"No. Where you can go is back to bed."

"But the Game is-"

"Bed. Now."

"The Game is-"

"March."

Sherlock, realizing he wasn't going to win this battle, flared his nostrils, turned, stomped his way back down the hall, and slammed his door behind him for good measure.

"Of all the lunatics I could have had as a roommate, I get the one with a catchphrase."

* * *

It took another hour of bargaining, pleading, and threatening to convince Sherlock that sleep really was the best option for him. But finally, _finally_ he was asleep and John had a full hour of uninterrupted silence all to himself to look forward to. Thoughts about catching up on his blog, reading a book, maybe even watching some telly with no added commentary, wandered through John's mind. Nothing could possibly ruin this small victory for him

Of course the fates, as usual, were against John Watson.

Susan, John's latest attempt at a real relationship, was perched on the sofa with a smile. "Ready to go?"

"Go."

Susan's smile instantly began to fade. "The movie John. It starts in an hour."

"The- the movie. Right of... course."

She gave a small sigh of resignation. "Let me guess. The_ oh so_ wonderful Sherlock Holmes has sneezed the wrong way, and so now you must once again cancel our date to go to his aid."

John sighed, this wasn't going to be pleasant. "Susan. I'm sorry, really. It's just... he's got the chicken pox."

She looked at him as if waiting for a further explanation. When none came she grabbed her coat in an indignant fashion. "He's a grown man, John. Surely he can look after himself, at least for one night."

John chuckled. "Have you ever actually met the man?"

Susan scowled. "Do me a favour John. Lose my number."

The bang of the front door jolted Sherlock out of his sleep.

"John? John! My back is itchy.. John?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Fix a few small mistakes to chapter 2, never post a chapter at three in the morning _DW says as she posts a story two hours before said time._**

**On to the story!**

* * *

Two days passed and Sherlock was finally beginning to show signs of recovery. That is, his incessant moaning was no longer about what colour coffin he should chose, and was now focused solely on how his brain was beginning to shrivel to the size of Anderson's.

John had taken to ripping holes in various bits of Sherlock's clothing, every chance he got.

Sherlock was convinced they had a moth problem.

* * *

"I don't know why they never target my stuff Sherlock, maybe it's your detergent." John replied the same time there came a knock on the door.

"We use the same detergent!"

"Well maybe they're sick of you being an annoying tosser all the time, and want to teach you a lesson."

"...Wait a minute."

"Greg." John said with surprise at their unexpected guest. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to talk to Sherlock." Lestrade frowned. "We're drowning in this case, John. Would really it be that big of deal if you just let him out for an hour or so?"

John returned his frown with a tinge of confusion. "Well yes... it would, didn't Sherlock tell you what he was sick with?"

"Sure he did, but come on; I've seen the man show up to a crime scene with a fever so high, he was half convinced we were on a beach in _Maui_ and he still managed to catch our guy. This can't be nearly as ba- aah!" Lestrade reeled backwards with a look of pure terror on his face. "Bleeding Christ! _Sher_lock!" The consulting detective had appeared in the kitchen doorway and was idly scratching the spots on his neck. He raised an eyebrow at Lestrade. "Problem?"

Lestrade's eye were beginning to bug out of their sockets. "You told me you had a bit of a _sniffle_!"

"I do." Sherlock gave a quick demonstration. "See."

"Yeah, alright, and the _chicken pox_!"

Sherlock sighed. "What's the big deal? So I have a bit of a rash."

"The big... _I've_ never had the chicken pox!" Lestrade spoke to him through his shirt sleeve. "And I've got six _kids_ at home who've never had them. Stay here much long and I'm likely to start a sodding pan_demic_!" Lestrade turned with scrabbled with the door handle. It took several tries for him to get a good grip as he refused to pull his hands from the full protection of his sleeves.

John finally took pity on the man when it became clear he wasn't going to be able to open the front door in that state.

Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs with a sour expression. "But what about the case?"

Greg turned and stabbed a finger at the sick man. "You're in quarantine." This earned him an eye roll.

"Don't be absurd."

"Sherlock, you are not allowed to leave this house, or contact Scotland Yard until you have a one hundred percent _clean_ bill of health. If I hear that you've done either, I will come back here and arrest you for public endangerment. Now good day; John slam the door."

With a sigh, John obliged.

"_Now_ what am I supposed to do?" Sherlock wailed.

John shrugged. "Take up a hobby? You can help Mrs. Hudson with her knitting."

That of course was the moment their landlady chose to open her door to see what all the commotion was. "Oh! What a splendid idea! I do have a bit of yarn that needs untangling. Sherlock, you stay there I'll go grab the baskets."

Sherlock glared harpoons.

* * *

"Well well look at you."

Sherlock smiled as he secured his scarf in place. "Spot free, fever free and off to a crime scene. Let's just see Lestrade try to ban me this time. You sure you don't want to come?"

John shook his head. "You go. I'll stay here, man the fort. Call me if anything really exciting goes down though, yeah?"

Sherlock waved an acknowledging hand and then he was gone. John let out a relieved breath.

* * *

Three hours had passed and John had caught up on his blog, read a book, and watched some commentary free programming. And now John was... bored. He was incredibly incredibly bored.

"Is the flat always this quiet when he's not here?" John mused aloud as he waited for his second cup of tea to heat up. He shrugged. "At least I don't have to put up with him lying around griping and moaning all day anymore."

He pushed aside the three scarves and two hats Sherlock had managed to complete and settled himself into his chair just as his phone sprang to life.

John frowned at the number. "Sherlock annoying you that much already, Lestrade?"

There was a short pause followed by an awkward cough/chuckle. "Yeah, well um actually I'm calling because I thought... well you see there was a _bit_ of an... accident, and... long story short? Sherlock's in a body cast."

John sighed.

* * *

**And there you have it folks! I hope you enjoyed it after waiting as long as you did. Sorry about that things got... odd out here in the none digital world, but I think they're finally starting to look up. Anyways thanks for reading, and hope to see you again soon. I've got a couple of stories brewing (one may or may not involve a certain beloved detective facing off against farm life.) but I've decided not to post anymore stories until I get the stories I have going now at least a bit closer to being finished. Well that's about it. Please leave a review if you would be so kind, or don't it's your life I won't hold it against you that much.  
Bye!**


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